


hit me with your best shot

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Peter, i tried to keep the tone of this kind of light, we'll see how well that worked out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: Peter jostles when Tony gives him a small shake, and panic ignites like spreading fire. A hit like that, one without much force, shouldn't have even fazed Peter. But if there's one thing Rhodey taught Tony, it's that blows like this can be tricky, dangerous.Tony shakes him again. “Come on, bud,” he says, but Peter's eyes are closed, he's not getting up.Something is wrong.- - -Inspired by a prompt from an anon on tumblr that said, "did you know if you hit someone in the perfect spot on their chest, at the perfect time during their heart beat, you can accidentally stop their heart?? :)"
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 560





	hit me with your best shot

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter warnings in the end notes.**
> 
> This piece is also inspired by a Supernatural fic called "Just For Kicks" by Faye Dartmouth.
> 
> .

“You're doing it again,” Tony says, turning to face Peter where they both stand on the blue mats of the compound gym, the overhead lights bright and irritating. “See, this is what I was talking about. This is what we call _cheating_.”

Peter laughs, because of course he does. They've been sparring for over an hour now and he isn't even breathing hard. He's stopped exactly one time and that was to tie his shoe – _his shoe_ , of all the damn reasons why, like Tony isn't over here sweating his ass off.

“Is it cheating just because I can do something you can't?” Peter asks.

Tony presses his lips into a tight line. The absolute nerve of it all. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes, it is. No question about it. Cheating.”

It's not that Peter is a good fighter in particular, because he's really not, too sloppy and excited and nervous about throwing his own punches, but he's avoided most of Tony's strikes by flipping through the air and landing on the other side of him. His agility is great, envious, even, but not when he came to Tony specifically to learn how to get better at fighting.

“You're using that freaky sixth sense thing too much,” Tony says. He scoops his water bottle off the floor and pops open the cap.

Peter's eyebrows furrow together. “You told me to use my instincts.”

“Yeah, your natural born instincts. Not your Haley Joel Osment instincts.”

“But – ” Peter pauses, gaze darting to the ceiling, to the corner of the room. He's been doing that a lot today too, and Tony doesn't know why. “I wasn't using it. I mean, okay, yeah, I was a little. But, like, half the time. It's kind of stopped working the more we've done this.”

“Stopped working how?” Tony asks.

“Well, I mean.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. He won't look at Tony. “I trust you, so I know you're not actually gonna hurt me. My spidey-sense only really works when I'm in danger, and that's not always a for sure thing.”

Something settles in the air between them, a horrified realization taking over Peter's features. Tony blinks, arching an eyebrow. Too late now. “Your what?”

Peter groans. “Oh god. Look, Ned came up with it, okay? I – let's just forget I said anything.”

“Your _spidey-sense_?” Tony repeats, just for the way Peter goes red and pushes his hands over his face. It's not the point Peter meant, but Tony will be damned if he doesn't get a few hits in the one place he knows he can. “Did I hear that right?”

From between his fingers, Peter says, near begging, “Mr. Stark, please.”

“Not even spider-sense?” Tony asks. “ _Spidey_? Are you Spidey-Man now? Did I miss the newsletter?”

“I have a Spanish quiz tomorrow. Can we hurry this up?”

“Hm.” Tony takes a long drink of water and closes his bottle again, tossing it away. It rolls off the edge of the mat. _Spidey-sense_. Fantastic. He's gonna need to ask Friday to remind him about this comedy gold later. Come to think of it, this nickname from Ned might even trump the time he inadvertently lead Tony into finding out about the Captain America PSAs. He needs to send the kid a gift for all the good content he's been giving him.

“Is that why you're being weird today?” he asks.

Peter frowns. “I'm not being weird,” he says, and glances at something over Tony's shoulder. Tony snaps to draw his attention back.

“Don't get defensive,” he says. “You're the one spacing out. What, you don't like the decorations or something? We need more posters on the walls?”

That gets an impatient huff, and, as if trying to prove Tony wrong, Peter straightens and rubs his palms together. The intent in the action is not missed. Peter gets worked up too easy. It's something Tony will learn how to deal with eventually.

“I'm not spacing out,” he says.

Tony slants him a taunting smile. “Then show me what you got, Spidey-Man.”

They square off again, loose-fists held high, bobbing in place. Tony throws the first jab, because Peter still isn't comfortable aiming blows at him, prefers dodging rather than playing offense, and that's fine, Tony has no problem teaching him how to take a hit until he can work through Peter's reserve. Both sides are important in sparring. You'll get nowhere if you can't protect yourself.

“Blocked!” Peter says, as he knocks aside Tony's first attack. Tony doesn't give him space to gloat, aiming another hit before Peter has reset.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling out your moves, kid?”

“But it's fun,” Peter says, dodging the fist that comes at him, low, near his jaw. “They do it anime all the time and it's always cool.” He falters, stopping a moment to shift his eyes to something Tony can't see, and Tony thumps him on the forehead.

“Stay with me, Parker. Let's go.”

Peter widens his stance, bending his knees. “Anyone ever tell you you're kind of mean?”

“Every day of my life,” Tony says. “Friday just told me this morning. Pepper told me last night. I can call Rhodey if you want, I think he probably said it last week.” Peter blocks his next hit, grinning as he does, calling out his sidestep. He's twitching a bit, and Tony can see his desire to jump again, to soar, so he gives in. He twists and kicks a leg out. It's higher than he intends, too much momentum tipping him off balance, but it doesn't matter. Peter will get out of the way. He's faster than anyone Tony's ever met.

Only – he doesn't move. Time slows, and Tony watches somewhere outside his body as the sole of his shoe connects solid against Peter's chest, forcing him to stumble back. _Shit_. Tony messed up. He messed up big time.

Peter stares at him in shock, and before Tony has even settled his weight on the ground again, Peter's eyes roll back into his head and he collapses.

Tony has never knocked Peter out before. He's never knocked anyone out in a sparring match – not even Rhodey, who offered him little mercy when he first taught Tony how to fight. To see Peter lying there now is unnerving, reminds him of Germany, of Peter careening through boxes and rolling across the tarmac and that brief, brief moment Tony feared he was dead.

He hurries forward. Peter is still down, crumpled on the floor. Tony kneels beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Pete? Hey, can you hear me?” He jostles when Tony gives him a small shake, and panic ignites like spreading fire. A hit like that, one without much force, shouldn't have even fazed Peter. But if there's one thing Rhodey taught Tony, it's that blows like this can be tricky, dangerous. 

Tony shakes him again. “Come on, bud,” he says, but Peter's eyes are closed, he's not getting up.

Something is wrong.

Was he already hurt? He's come to practice like that before, right after patrolling, once after taking down a bad guy on the way over. Tony wouldn't be surprised. He never really is. He rests his hand on Peter's sternum to check for injuries, and stops short, numb with surprise.

There's no movement under his touch. Peter isn't breathing.

How can he not be breathing?

Time slows even further. Tony brings shaky fingers to the pulse point in Peter's neck, presses hard when he feels nothing. His own heart is pounding too loud in his ears. With a quick tap to the housing unit on his chest, he activates his nanotech. The bots swarm his hand in two seconds flat, but it's a hundred years too long. This time, as he touches the space over Peter's heart, looking at the pallor of Peter's skin, the ashy color of his face, it's Friday's voice that rings out.

“No heartbeat detected.”

Tony's breath catches. And then time is moving again, too fast, and he's moving with it before his brain can catch up. He laces his fingers together, one hand on top the other, and leans over Peter to shove his palm into his chest and start compressions.

“Medical, Friday,” he bites out. “Anyone you can get. Fast.”

“Already on it, boss,” Friday says.

This is all Tony's fault. He shouldn't have thrown a kick at someone he knew was distracted. He should have just called the whole thing off. Peter would have complained, whined a little, sure, but he would be fine. Peter is always fine. He always moves out of the way.

“Come on, kid, come on,” Tony says. There's an automatic defibrillator around here somewhere – Pepper had them installed on each floor in case of emergencies – and Tony desperately needs it but has no idea where it is. He whips his head around, searching, and Friday says, “Boss, you must continue chest compressions.”

He does, gritting his teeth together. “Get me _help_ , Friday. Now!”

The door to the gym flies open and slams into the wall. Tony hears a pop underneath him, then another.

“Keep doing compressions until I say so.” It's Bruce, kneeling on Peter's other side. He's got the red box with the defibrillator in it and is opening the lid, spilling the contents out. For all the times he's told Tony he's not “that kind of doctor,” he's swift and efficient now, cutting through Peter's shirt and folding the fabric aside, peeling the stickers off the electrode pads. “Stop.”

Once Tony has lifted his arms, Bruce attaches the pads to Peter's chest. The machine beeps, analyzing its results. It tells Tony what he already knows – Peter has no heartbeat.

“Don't touch him,” Bruce says. “I'm sending a shock.” He presses a button on the machine and Peter jolts once, back arching, and falls motionless again. Bruce checks his pulse. “Nothing,” he says. “Keep doing compressions.”

The machine beeps a second time. Tony goes until Bruce tells him to stop and another shock is sent. Peter flops lifelessly. A hand to his chest and Friday's voice. “No heartbeat detected.”

“Again, Tony,” Bruce says. “Compressions.”

The world narrows down to a pinpoint, a single moment, just the three of them, Bruce ready on the defibrillator, Tony forcing Peter's heart to pump, and Peter –

“Sending another shock.”

Peter jerks, and Tony's fingers go to the same place.

“Heartbeat detected,” Friday says. “Medical is three minutes out, arriving by helicopter.”

Tony freezes. Bruce freezes too. Between them, Peter is stationary, but it's there, the small rise and fall of his chest, the action so normal it takes a few seconds to process. Tony can see it. Peter is breathing.

“Shit,” he says on an exhale.

Almost like he can't believe it either, Bruce checks Peter's pulse himself. He closes his eyes and his shoulders drop a little, tension easing out. “Help me roll him on his side,” he says quietly. “We should get him into the recovery position.”

Carefully, they adjust Peter, pulling limbs and shifting him around. It's uncomfortable, how pliant he is, even though Tony knows he's alive, knows his heart is working. But it's enough. That knowledge, that confirmation, is all he needs. He can work with alive. Alive is good.

He sits back on his heels and scrapes his hands through his hair. He's sweating worse than before, panting as if he's still sparring.

“I – I think I might have broken some of his ribs.” It's a stupid thing to point out right now, but he can't think of anything else to say. He feels like he might throw up.

Bruce nods in understanding. “That's okay. It's normal.” He has a hand on Peter's shoulder, whether to keep him in position or just as an act of self-reassurance, Tony isn't sure. He can't even remember why Bruce is here today, because it's Saturday, and most of the building is empty. He supposes he doesn't care either way. Bruce did just help save Peter's life, after all.

“How did you know to bring the defibrillator?” Tony asks.

“Friday told me what happened,” Bruce says. “Told me Peter didn't have a pulse and wasn't breathing. I just grabbed the one in the workshop and ran down.”

“Yeah, good thing.”

“It's good a thing you know CPR too. You probably – Peter?” Bruce bends forward, closer to Peter's head, and the sudden change of tone sends Tony scrambling closer. Bruce says, “Peter, can you hear me?”

Peter shifts. His eyelids flutter, hazy, confused gaze resting on where Tony has moved into his line of sight. His mouth parts open, but no words come out.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Tony says, keeping his tone light. “Don't move, okay? We've got some help coming. Gonna get you back in tiptop shape.” He's not sure if Peter understands him, and based on the blank look on his face, he doesn't have high hopes. He's awake, though. He's awake and Tony will take it.

“Paramedics,” someone calls. At the doorway to the gym, a small group of people, two men and a woman, hurry in, dressed in black jumpsuits, carrying medical bags. Bruce stands to meet them and Tony takes his place by Peter. The woman, approaching fast, sees the electrode pads still stuck to Peter's chest and murmurs something to her companions. One of the men changes directions and heads back out the door.

The other, a moppy-headed man somewhere in his mid-twenties, squats down by Peter. “Hey, buddy,” he says, opening his bag. “Can you tell me your name?”

Tony is close enough to hear Peter's intake of air, his small, raspy, “P-Peter. Parker.”

“Hi, Peter Parker,” the man says. “You can call me Jameson. I'm a paramedic. I heard you were in a bit of an accident here. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Tony,” Bruce says, and beckons him away to give them space. Tony squeezes Peter's shoulder and stands. He doesn't catch Peter's response, but Jameson does, says, easily, as the woman crouches beside him, “That's all right. No worries at all. Do you know where we are right now? What's the name of this building?”

Tony stands at Bruce's side and watches them work. His hands shake, and he shoves them deep into the pockets of his sweatpants and follows each breath Peter takes.

\- - -

“I stopped his heart?”

“Looks like it,” the doctor tells him later, as he and Bruce sit in a private waiting room, the lights low, the fifth floor quiet. The doctor, a woman named Zoey, flips through notes on her clipboard. “But he's awake and alert. His vitals are strong. His blood work is good. We're gonna keep him a couple days to monitor his heart, but I expect he'll be up and about in no time.”

“That's great,” Bruce says, but Tony cuts him off.

“ _I_ stopped his heart?” he asks again, because it makes sense, but it also doesn't make sense at all. “Someone connect the dots here for me. I barely hit him.”

Zoey peers up at him through her glasses. “You were sparring, right? The paramedics said he took a kick to the chest.”

“Yeah, but it wasn't hard.”

“Have you heard of something called commotio cordis?” Zoey asks, not waiting for an answer. “No, I suppose not. In layman's terms, a direct hit to the area over the heart at a very specific time during the heartbeat cycle can cause sudden cardiac death. We're talking milliseconds of a window of opportunity. It's quite rare. Very fascinating.”

Tony gawks at her. _Fascinating_? He literally killed Peter. In what world is that fascinating?

“Uh.” Bruce knocks at his wrist, trying to diffuse the situation before Tony completely loses it. “But he's all right? We can see him?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Zoey fixes her glasses and leads them out into the hall. She points with her pen to their right. “He's that way. Room 5191. His aunt is in with him already and a nurse will be by shortly to run a few more tests.”

“Fascinating,” Tony mutters, and Bruce urges him away, nodding his thanks.

Peter is awake when they get there. The door is open and they step inside and he's chatting with May, his phone tilted toward her, both of them laughing at his screen. He's wearing one of those god-awful hospital gowns, and there are a variety of multicolored wires coming up from the collar, connected on one end to his chest and attached to a monitor at his bedside, and Tony feels relief crash over him like a tidal wave.

Peter glances in their direction, his eyes going wide. “O-oh, hey,” he says, like he's surprised. “You guys are here.”

“Of course we're here,” Tony says, without the usual bite, without any preamble. Guilt is a fresh wound of his own.

May must get this. She must, because after greeting them herself, she rises from her chair, stretches out her arms like she's been there too long. “I'm gonna go to the cafeteria,” she says to Peter. “I'm feeling sneaky. What do you want? Chocolate cake? A burger? Pizza? All of the above?”

“Um, you pick,” Peter says.

“Challenge accepted.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and heads toward the door, stopping by Tony and Bruce. “The nurses told me what you guys did,” she says softly. “How you saved him. I can never thank you enough.” No anger at Tony for being the one responsible. No hidden meanings. Tony feels like a damn idiot. He just nods as May steps aside.

Bruce clears his throat. “Well, I think I'll … wait outside. Give you two a minute. How are you feeling, Peter?”

Peter looks shell shocked, eyes going even wider. Tony holds back a snort. Always a fanboy. “I'm – I'm good. A little sore, but nothing bad. T-thanks, Dr. Banner.” Peter chews on his bottom lip, looking away. “And, um, you know, _thanks_. For – you know, helping –”

“No thanks needed,” Bruce says. “I'm just glad you're all right.” Peter offers him a tentative smile, and Bruce returns it before swiveling around. “Well, I will be somewhere else.” He moves to follow May out, May's distant, “Would you like to come to the cafeteria with me, Dr. Banner?” the last sound as the door closes behind them.

Tony sighs through his nose. “Kid, I'm –”

“Thanks to you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, the words tumbling out. “I feel like you're always saving my life somehow, but I guess this was kind of different because it wasn't a Spider-Man thing, so it wasn't really my fault. Did Dr. Zoey tell you how it happened? Isn't it cool? Like, a millisecond chance you could have hit me right at the exact moment it would make my heart stop, and bam, you nailed it in the perfect spot, right –”

“Jesus Christ.” Tony crosses the room to sink down in May's chair. “Only you would think that's cool.”

Peter makes a face. “Dr. Zoey thinks it's cool.”

“Dr. Zoey probably printed out her medical degree online.” Peter rolls his eyes. And there it is. He's fine, he's okay, he's alive.

But Tony isn't done yet. He leans back in his seat, crosses a leg over the other. Peter clicks his phone off and stows it under his blankets.

“You really feeling all right?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “My chest hurts a little, but it's a lot better now. It was worse when I first woke up.” His fingers reach for one of the pads connected under his gown and stop short. He's always been resilient, bouncing back fast, ready for more. That's why Tony doesn't get it.

“Listen,” he says. “I gotta know, why were you so distracted today? It was my fault, for still fighting when I knew you were having problems focusing, but what was going on?”

Peter scratches at the IV in the back of his hand so he doesn't have to meet Tony's gaze. Pink tints his cheeks. “I, uh. I stayed up late studying for my quiz,” he says. “Sometimes when I don't get a lot of sleep, my senses go a little haywire. Like, an overload. I was just – everything was kind of loud. I could hear stuff moving. Like water in pipes and stuff.”

Tony crinkles his nose at the thought. Sensory overload is a monster. He can't imagine wanting to keep doing anything if his hearing was acting up like that. “Why did you keep fighting?”

“It helps,” Peter says. “Being distracted. Er, you know, having something to distract you.”

“Gotcha,” Tony says, because he does. He gets it. He just wants to make sure this never happens again. “Let's make a deal, all right? If your senses are dialed up when we're sparring, you tell me. And in return, I won't, I don't know, throw kicks at you when you're not prepared to block them?” Peter nods quickly, an apology forming on his lips, but Tony can't bear to hear it when the fault was his own, when he should have been paying more attention.

He says, “Next time you want to get out of a quiz, kid, I think we can come up with a better way.”

Peter's expression hovers a moment, caught in uncertainty before morphing into amusement. “You think I'd stoop so low to avoid my test?” he asks. “I'm offended. You're breaking my heart, Mr. Stark. Literally breaking it.”

“Pete, I swear to god –”

Peter grins, lighting up, and all Tony can do is shake his head, exasperated and grateful and way too tired for this.

The absolute nerve of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warnings for CPR, and apologies for my naive lack of medical knowledge.
> 
> I had Tony give Peter hands-only CPR because the American Heart Association says it's okay. Also, I think most AEDs (the automatic defibrillator Bruce was using) speak to you and give you verbal instructions, but let's pretend Bruce just knows how to use one and happened to have one that doesn't talk. Yolo.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated. [And here's my Tumblr, if you want to hang out](https://jbsforever.tumblr.com/). <3


End file.
